UBRARY 
•CMML 


^/^^^ 


y. 


OF  MUCH  LOVE 

AND  SOME  KNOWLEDGE 

OF  BOOKS 


THE  Committee  on  Publications 
of  the  Caxton  Club  certifies  that 
this   book  is  one   of   an   edition   of 
three  hundred  and  fifty- four  copies 
on  Tuscany  paper  and  three  copies 
on  Imperial  Japan  paper. 


P^  OF  MUCH  LOVE 
AND 
SOME  KNOWLEDGE 
OF  BOOKS 


BY 


y^     HENRY  EDUARD  LEGLER    o^ 


The  ornamental  title-page  and 

other  decorations   in  this  book 

have  been  engraved  from  designs 

by  Frederick  William  Gookin 


/__  (  {<  f  a.  f  -J 


...(( 


Copyright,  1912 

By 

The  Caxton  Club 

Chicago 


,003, 


Let  me  love  the  insides  of 
BOOKS  WITH  Dr.  Johnson  and 

HAVE  RESPECT  UNTO  THEIR  OUT- 
SIDES  WITH  David  Garrick. 

— DeWitt  Miller's  bookplate  inscription. 


^^y  '     \.^-^Z*  ^   m 


OF  MUCH 

LOVE 

AND  SOME 

KNOWLEDGE 

OF  BOOKS 


Let  it  be  understood  at  the  very  outset  that  this 
is  to  be  no  Hsting  of  books  in  any  fashion  as  guides 
for  reading  or  for  study;  no  cataloguing  of  volumes 
warranted  to  comprise  the  hundred  best  books,  nor 
a  thousand;  no  measurement  of  shelf-space  to  con- 
tain selected  works  that  no  gentleman's  library  should 
be  without.  One  may  be  pardoned  for  choosing  his 
own  titles,  whether  they  be  a  baker's  dozen  or  over- 
run the  allotted  limits  of  a  measured  shelf.  If  one 
gives  in  the  choosing  no  evidence  of  good  taste,  as 
determined  by  experts  in  culture,  at  any  rate  one 
exercises  the  privilege  of  declaring  for  himself  what 
tastes  good. 

We  get  no  good 
By  being  ungenerous,  even  to  a  book. 
And  calculating  profits    ...    so  much  help 
By  so  much  reading.     It  is  rather  when 
We  gloriously  forget  ourselves  and  plunge 
Soul-forward,  headlong,  into  a  book  profound, 
Impassioned  for  its  beauty  and  salt  of  truth — 
'Tis  then  we  get  the  right  good  from  a  book. 

Books  naturally  fall  into  three  classes,  as  Prof. 
Woodberry    points    out:    those    that    are    outlived, 

7 


because  the  experience  they  contain  and  address  is 
shallow  or  transitory;  those  that  are  arrived  at  late 
because  the  experience  involved  is  mature;  and  those, 
the  greatest,  which  give  something  to  the  youngest 
and  have  something  left  to  give  to  the  oldest,  which 
keep  pace  with  life  itself  and  like  life  disclose  them- 
selves more  profoundly,  intimately,  and  in  expanding 
values  with  familiarity. 

"The  secret  of  appreciation,"  he  says,  "is  to 
share  the  passion  for  life  that  literature  itself 
exemplifies  and  contains;  out  of  real  experience,  the 
best  that  one  can  have,  to  possess  oneself  of  that 
imaginary  experience  which  is  the  stuff  of  larger 
life  and  the  place  of  the  ideal  expansion  of  the  soul, 
the  gateway  to  which  is  art  in  all  forms  and  pri- 
marily literature ;  to  avail  oneself  of  that  for  pleasure 
and  wisdom  and  fulness  of  life.  It  is  those  minds 
which  are  thus  experienced  that  alone  come  to  be 
on  the  level  of  the  greatest  works  and  to  absorb 
their  life;  but  the  way  is  by  a  gradual  ascent,  by 
natural  growth,  by  maintaining  a  vital  relation 
with  what  is  read.  So  long  as  the  bond  between 
author  and  reader  is  a  living  bond,  appreciation  is 
secure. 

"The  act  of  reading  is  a  blending  of  two  souls, 
nor  is  it  seldom  that  the  reader  brings  the  best 
part,  vivifying  his  author  with  his  own  memory 
and  aspiration  and  imparting  a  flame  to  the  words 
from  his  own  soul.  The  appreciation  of  literature 
is  thus  by  no  means  a  simple  matter;  it  is  not 
the  ability  to  read,  nor  even  a  canon  of  criticism 

8 


and  rules  of  admiration  and  censure  that  are  re- 
quired; but  a  live  soul,  full  of  curiosity  and  interest 
in  life,  sensitive  to  impressions,  acute  and  subtle  in 
reception,  prompt  to  complete  a  suggestion,  and 
always  ready  with  the  light  of  its  own  life  to  serve 
harmonious  and  enhancing  environment  of  scenes 
of  love  or  tragedy.  That  reader  does  best  who  in 
his  use  of  literature  insists  on  the  presence  of  this 
immediate  appeal  to  himself  in  the  books  he  reads. 
If  the  book  does  not  have  this  effect  with  him,  if  it 
does  not  co-operate  with  his  own  taste  and  interest, 
it  may  be  the  best  of  books  for  others,  but  it  is  not 
for  him — at  least  it  is  not  yet  for  him." 

There  are  books  of  facts,  representing  the  lit- 
erature of  information;  there  are  also  books  of  imag- 
ination, representing  the  literature  of  power  in  the 
building  of  personality  and  character. 

Concerning  the  first  type  of  books,  there  must 
be  knowledge,  but  only  an  erratic  fancy  could  lavish 
love  upon  them.  Of  the  other,  knowledge  but 
presupposes  love.  Now  love  of  books  may  be,  as 
it  is  in  human  relationship  which  books  symbolize, 
of  three  kinds:  physical,  intellectual,  and  emotional. 
The  one  form  creates  the  bibliographe;  the  next  too 
often  produces  the  bibliotaphe;  the  other  begets  the 
unbalanced  bibliomaniac.  In  a  merging  of  the  three 
elements  of  book  love  is  found  that  finer  spirit 
summed  up  in  the  term  bibliophile.  Abbe  Rive, 
librarian  of  the  Duke  de  Valliere,  in  his  lexicon  of 
the  booklover  described  the  bibliophile  as  "a  lover 
of  books,  the  only  one  of  the  class  who  appears  to 

9 


read  them  for  his  own  pleasure,"  while  a  later 
biblio-lexicographer  has  expanded  this  definition 
thus:  "The  Simon-Pure  lover  of  books,  God  bless 
him!  Much  rarer  he  than  people  think  him  to  be. 
Bibliophile  is  a  title  which  belongs  to  those  who 
seek  books  for  themselves  alone,  hurried  into  no 
excesses  of  the  passion  of  the  bibliomaniac,  and 
free  from  the  selfish  and  miserly  cupidity  of  the 
bibliotaphe." 

Reference  again  to  Abbe  Rive's  biblio-lexicon, 
and  Halkett  Lord's  biblio-dictionary,  and  George 
H.  Ellw^anger's  little  list  of  similar  definitions  dis- 
closes that  in  condensed  terms  the  bibliotaphe  is  the 
undertaker  of  literature  who  buries  his  books  behind 
locked  doors;  the  bibliographe  is  he  who  deems  a 
coldly  scientific  collation  or  description  of  books  his 
chief  duty  toward  them;  the  bibliomaniac  is  tersely 
identified  by  the  Germans  as  a  Blicher-narr,  or 
book-fool.  He  is,  to  refer  to  Abbe  Rive  again,  the 
indiscriminate  accumulator,  cock-brained  and  purse- 
heavy.  He  is  learned  only  in  titles,  dates,  and 
editions,  and  a  connoisseur  of  colophons.  Of  what 
lies  between  the  first  and  final  pages,  he  careth 
naught,  save  perhaps  an  illustration  or  an  error  of 
typography.  Him  Sebastian  Brant  full  four  hun- 
dred years  ago  sent  on  a  wild-goose  voyage  in  his 
delectable  Ship  of  Fools.  "I  am  the  first  foole  of 
all  the  whole  navy,"  Brant  caused  him  to  say,  and 
ever  since  it  can  be  read  of  the  bookworm  in  Ger- 
man, Latin  and  in  English,  and  in  Suabian  dialect, 
too,  what  sort  of  fool  he  is : 

10 


Still  am  I  besy  bokes  assemblynge 

For  to  haue  plenty  it  is  a  pleasaunt  thynge 

In  my  conceyt  and  to  haue  them  ay  in  honde — 

But  what  they  mean  do  I  nat  vnderstonde. 

Lo  in  lyke  wyse  of  bokys  I  haue  store 

But  fewe  I  rede,  and  fewer  understonde. 
I  folowe  not  theyr  doctryne  nor  theyr  lore — 

It  is  ynoughe  to  bere  a  boke  in  hande, 
It  were  to  moche  to  be  in  suche  a  bande 
For  to  be  bounde  to  loke  within  the  boke — 
I  am  content  on  the  fayre  couerynge  to  loke. 

Each  of  the  latter  three  types,  therefore,  possesses 
one,  and  but  one,  of  three  otherwise  excellent  qual- 
ities, each  of  which  is  rendered  ludicrous  or  odious 
only  in  being  detached  from  the  others  and  becom- 
ing over-accentuated.  Refined  and  tempered  by 
association,  these  qualities  become  the  essence  of 
that  subtle  love  and  knowledge  of  books  which 
yield  the  Seven  Joys  of  Reading.  And  the  Seven 
Joys  of  Reading  are  these:* 

The  first  joy  is  the  Joy  of  Familiarity, 

The  second  joy  is  the  Joy  of  Surprise, 

The  third  joy  is  the  Joy  of  Sympathy, 

The  fourth  joy  is  the  Joy  of  Appreciation, 

The  fifth  joy  is  the  Joy  of  Expansion, 

The  sixth  joy  is  the  Joy  of  Shock, 

The  last  of  the  seven  is  the  Joy  of  Revelation. 

The  last  Joy?  Nay,  perad venture,  not  the  last. 
There  remain  ninety-and-nine. 

*  Plummer,  Mary  W.     The  Seven  Joys  of  Reading. 


11 


II 

Of  the  love  of  books,  it  may  be  reiterated,  there 
are  three:  Physical,  intellectual,  and  emotional. 
To  have  interest  in  the  make-up  of  a  book  for 
bibliographical  descriptive  purposes  only  is  book- 
love  in  counterfeit  guise.  Dr.  Thomas  Frognall 
Dibdin  was  perhaps  the  pattern  whose  replicas,  alas, 
may  be  found  in  too  many  of  our  libraries  to-day. 
In  his  sumptuously  printed  volumes  miles  upon 
miles  of  running  type  give  with  dull  minuteness  the 
typographical  vagaries  of  the  volumes  described,  and 
the  prices  which  they  brought  at  auction.  The 
Dibdinite  delights  in  inverted  letters,  in  wrong 
pagination,  in  errors  in  spelling.  To  him  it  is  a 
greater  pleasure  to  discover  a  typographical  ec- 
centricity than  a  living  bit  of  literature.  He  delights 
in  the  curious  misspellings  and  bibliographic  mis- 
takes which  have  given  flavor  to  certain  editions  of 
the  Bible  such  as  the  Breeches  Bible,  the  Bug  Bible, 
the  Wicked  Bible,  the  Vinegar  Bible,  the  Standing 
Fishes  Bible,  the  Ears-to-Ear  Bible,  the  Wife-Hater 
Bible,  and  many  others.  This  is  the  measure  of  his 
love  of  books. 

Rightly  pursued,  however,  the  study  of  the  physical 
attributes  of  a  book  is  not  ignoble.  Its  format,  its 
binding,  its  proportion  of  text  and  margin,  its  type, 
its  title-page  and  colophon  if  it  have  one,  its  illus- 
trations and  decorations  and  the  processes  which 
have  produced  them,  the  texture  of  the  paper,  the 

1« 


chapter  headings,  and  a  score  of  other  things 
distinctive  in  a  book,  well  repay  most  careful  study. 
And  this  study  must  embrace  not  only  those  con- 
siderations individually,  but  their  relation  to  each 
other,  for  in  combination  they  mar  a  book  or  render 
it  an  object  of  beauty  and  nobility,  just  as  personal 
qualities  make  for  man's  character  and  shape  his  life. 
Browsing  at  random  among  one's  books,  as  the 
mood  sometimes  impels,  one  finds  between  covers 
something  that  ordinarily  escapes  attention — some- 
thing unimportant,  maybe,  but  conveying  the  little 
intimate  touch  that  gives  the  volume  its  value  to  the 
possessor.  For  books  have  their  little  secrets,  too, 
that  are  not  for  the  general  reader,  who  could  not 
understand;  that  are  reserved  for  those  whose 
sympathetic  ear  is  attuned  to  hear  the  wee  whisper, 
and  who  can  cherish  the  little  confidences  as  those  of 
a  friend.  It  may  be  that  a  mere  signature  will  tell 
a  long,  long  story  as  does  the  thumb  mark  in  that 
volume  of  Keats  which  was  found  in  Shelley's  coat 
pocket  when  his  body  was  washed  upon  the  beach. 
It  may  be  a  scrawl  on  the  margin,  or  where  the 
printed  footnote  belongs,  or  where  the  old  master 
printers  were  wont  to  put  the  colophon.  And  it 
may  be  a  mere  affectation  of  phrase,  in  the  printed 
text,  or  a  reference  to  scene  or  circumstance  that  to 
him  who  knows  means  much,  but  to  any  other 
gives  no  hint  of  personal  allusion.  For  the  one 
the  book  is  the  draught  that  quenches  thirst;  for 
the  other  it  is  the  nectar  whose  exquisite  flavor 
lingers  in  the  taste. 

13 


Ill 

For  most  readers  the  introduction  is  the  part  to 
remain  unread,  and  the  dedication  to  be  unnoted. 
And  yet  the  dedicatory  page  may  be  more  interest- 
ing than  all  the  pages  that  follow.  It  is  here  that 
the  author  permits  the  reader  a  glimpse  of  himself, 
of  his  friendships,  of  his  intimate  thoughts.  This, 
of  course,  was  not  always  so;  in  one  period  of  book- 
making,  what  should  have  been  the  "spontaneous 
expression  of  an  author's  love"  became  perverted 
into  the  fulsome  praise  of  a  wealthy  patron  "that 
thrift  might  follow  fawning."  Into  the  dedication 
of  the  modern  book,  nothing  of  sordid  commer- 
cialism enters;  it  is  the  one  particular  personal  touch 
which  the  author  allows  himself.  The  most  interest- 
ing dedications,  as  they  are  frequently  the  most 
graceful  in  form  and  genuine  in  tone,  are  those 
addressed  to  mother,  wife  or  sweetheart.  A  random 
journey  along  the  bookshelves  will  disclose  this  fact. 
They  are  not  all  of  them  in  modern  books.  Perhaps 
the  example  of  an  earlier  century  that  comes  most 
readily  to  mind  is  Sir  Philip  Sidney's  famous  "Ar- 
cadia," whose  quaint  and  loving  dedication  has 
caused  it  to  be  known  as  the  "Countess  of 
Pembroke's  *  Arcadia.'"  In  a  volume  published 
in  1772,  Richard  Steele's  dedication  to  his  wife 
reads : 

I  owe  to  you  that  for  my  sake  you  have  overlooked  the 
prospect  of  living  in  pomp  and  plenty,  and  I  have  not 

14 


been  circumspect  enough  to  preserve  you  from  care  and 
sorrow. 

Poor  Dick  Steele!  He  well  earned  the  definition 
applied  to  him  as  a  man  "who  multiplied  troubles 
as  few  men  will,  and  bore  them  better  than  most 
men  can." 

Of  modern  dedications,  William  Ernest  Henley's 
to  his  wife  in  that  last  thin  sheaf  of  verse  published 
before  his  death  may  well  come  first.  Henley's  was 
a  tempestuous  spirit,  but  his  mood  was  rarely  tender 
when  he  wrote  this: 

TO  MY  WIFE 

Take,  dear,  my  little  sheaf  of  songs, 

For,  old  and  new. 
All  that  is  good  in  them  belongs 

Only  to  you. 

And  singing  as  when  always  young. 

They  will  recall 
Those  others,  lived  but  left  unsung — 

The  best  of  all. 


Mention  of  Henley  inevitably  recalls  Robert 
Louis  Stevenson.  With  characteristic  fervor  and 
fire,  the  wizard  of  words  wrote: 

Trusty,  dusky,  vivid,  true. 

With  eyes  of  gold  and  bramble  dew. 

Steel-true  and  blade-straight, 

The  Great  Artificer 

Made  my  mate. 

15 


Honour,  anger,  valour,  fire; 

A  love  that  life  could  never  tire, 

Death  quench,  or  evil  stir, 

The  Mighty  Master  gave  to  her. 

Teacher,  tender  comrade,  wife, 
A  fellow-farer  true  through  life, 
Heart-whole  and  soul-free. 
The  August  Father 
Gave  to  me. 

When  Stevenson  wrote  "Weir  of  Hermiston,"  it 
was  his  wife  to  whom  he  dedicated  what  was  des- 
tined to  remain  a  fragment: 

I  saw  rain  falling  and  the  rainbow  drawn 
On  Lammermuir.     Hearkening  I  heard  again 
In  my  precipitous  city  beaten  bells 
Winnow  the  keen  sea  wind.     And  here  afar, 
Intent  on  my  own  race  and  place,  I  wrote. 
Take  thou  the  writing:   thine  it  is.     For  who 
Burnished  the  sword,  blew  on  the  drowsy  coal. 
Held  still  the  target  higher,  chary  of  praise 
And  prodigal  of  counsel — who  but  thou.^ 
So  now,  in  the  end,  if  this  the  least  be  good. 
If  any  deed  be  done,  if  any  fire 
Burn  in  the  imperfect  page,  the  praise  be  thine. 

Alfred  Tennyson  dedicated  two  of  his  books  to  his 
wife,  issued  more  than  a  quarter  of  a  century  apart. 
This  dedication  to  Mrs.  Tennyson  was  first  printed 
in  the  Enoch  Arden  volume  of  1864: 

A  DEDICATION 

Dear,  near  and  true — no  truer  Time  himself 
Can  prove  you,  though  he  make  you  evermore 
Dearer  and  nearer. 

16 


His  last  volume  bears  the  second  dedication. 
It  was  written  shortly  prior  to  his  death  in  1892: 

I  thought  to  myself  I  would  offer  this  book  to  you, 
This  and  my  love  together, 
To  you  that  are  seventy-seven. 
With  a  faith  as  clear  as  the  heights  of  the  June-blue 
heaven. 
And  a  fancy  as  Summer  new 
As  the  green  of  the  bracken  amid  the  gloom  of  the 
heather. 

Mary  Olcott  is  the  autlior  of  the  following 
felicitous  dedication: 

I  hide  within  my  book  till  eyes 
Which  draw  my  own  shall  look  and  read; 
Others  may  look,  yet  give  no  heed; 
The  printed  word  has  no  surprise 
For  alien  eyes. 

Whoever  reads,  save  only  one. 
May  read.     But  one  alone  shall  find 
The  impress  of  the  hidden  mind, 
Uttering  speech  where  speech  is  none 
For  but  the  one. 

The  estrangement  of  Elizabeth  Barrett  and  her 
father  when  she  married  Robert  Browning  is  one  of 
the  sad  chapters  of  literary  history.  The  pathos 
of  this  dedicatory  preface  appears  the  greater  when 
it  is  recalled  that  her  father  refused  to  be  reconciled 
to  his  daughter  for  marrying  in  opposition  to  his 
wishes.     This  is  the  dedication: 

17 


To  My  Father:  When  your  eyes  fall  upon  this  page 
of  dedication,  and  you  start  to  see  to  whom  it  is  inscribed, 
your  first  thought  will  be  of  the  time  far  off  when  I  was 
a  child  and  wrote  verses,  and  when  I  dedicated  them  to 
you,  who  were  my  public  and  my  critic.  Of  all  that  such 
a  recollection  imphes  of  saddest  and  sweetest  to  both  of 
us,  it  would  become  neither  of  us  to  speak  before  the  world; 
nor  would  it  be  possible  for  us  to  speak  of  it  to  one  another 
with  voices  that  did  not  falter.  Enough,  that  what  is 
in  my  heart  when  I  write  thus,  will  be  fully  known  to 
yours.  .  .  .  Somewhat  more  faint-hearted  than  I 
used  to  be,  it  is  my  fancy  thus  to  seem  to  return  to  a 
visible  dependence  on  you,  as  if  indeed  I  were  a  child 
again;  to  conjure  your  beloved  image  between  myself  and 
the  public,  so  as  to  be  sure  of  one  smile, — and  to  satisfy 
my  heart  while  I  sanctify  my  ambition,  by  associating 
with  the  great  pursuit  of  my  life  its  tenderest  and  holiest 
affection. 

No  name  is  given  by  Pierre  Loti  on  the  dedicatory 
page  of  "From  Lands  of  Exile:" 

I  dedicate  this  to  the  memory  of  a  noble  and  exquisite 
woman,  whose  never-to-be-forgotten  image  rises  before 
me  strangely  vivid  whenever  I  have  time  to  think.  These 
notes  from  the  faraway  Yellow  Land  were  originally 
written  for  her  alone.  I  used  to  send  them  to  her  out  of 
the  distance  as  a  sort  of  chat  to  amuse  her  during  the 
long,  weary  months  while  she  was  slowly  fading  out  of 
life,  slowly  and  with  a  serene  smile. 

In  the  extraordinary  love-story  that  resulted  in 
the  marriage  of  Honore  de  Balzac  and  the  Countess 
Hanska,  the  novelist's  dedication  prefixed  to 
"Modeste  Mignon"  is  but  an  incident.  It  was 
written   when   his   fair   and   distant   correspondent 

18 


was   unknown  to  liim  by   name.     The   rhapsodical 
address  is  truly  French  in  verbiage  and  in  spirit; 

To  ii  Polish  Lady:  Daughter  of  an  enslaved  land, 
angel  through  love,  witch  through  fancy,  child  by  faith, 
aged  by  experience,  man  in  brain,  woman  in  heart,  giant 
by  hope,  mother  through  sorrow,  poet  in  thy  dreams,  to 
thee  belongs  this  book,  in  which  thy  love,  thy  fancy, 
thy  experience,  thy  sorrow,  thy  hope,  thy  dreams  are 
the  warp  through  which  is  shot  a  woof  less  brilliant  than 
the  poetry  of  thy  soul,  whose  expression  when  it  shines 
upon  thy  countenance  is  to  those  who  love  thee  what  the 
characters  of  a  lost  language  are  to  scholars. 

There  is  a  fine  reserve  in  Walter  Pater's  dedication 
to  his  wife,  which  appears  in  his  "Angel  in  the 
House:" 

This  Poem 

is  inscribed 

to 

the  memory  of  Her 

By  whom  and  for  whom  I  became  a  poet. 

"From  the  worst  of  poets  to  the  best  of  wives" 
was  the  dedicatory  phrase  used  by  Sir  Wilfred  Law- 
son  for  his  "Cartoons  in  Rhyme  and  Line." 

These  examples  will  suffice  to  indicate  the  interest 
that  attaches  to  the  unconsidered  trifles  of  book 
lore. 


IV 

No  matter  how  limited  the  collection  of  books,  no 
book-lover's  library  is  complete  without  at  least  a 
handful  of  well-thumbed  volumes  of  verse.     If  he 

19 


doth  possess  the  real  spirit  of  the  bookfellow,  the 
individual  books  in  this  group  are  likely  to  bear  a 
certain  kinship.  The  collection  may  comprise  a 
representation  of  the  minor  poets.  There  may  be 
found  together  perhaps  those  joyful  booklets  issued 
by  Bliss  Carman  and  Richard  Hovey,  jointly  and 
severally,  including  the  little  rare  brochures  privately 
issued.  Or,  perchance,  there  may  be  fraternizing 
the  different  editions  of  the  myriad  publications 
bearing  the  name  of  the  Persian  Tent-dweller.  Per- 
haps some  of  the  books  may  suggest  a  legacy  from 
the  troubadours,  even  though  in  modern  guise. 
Such  grouping,  while  evidence  of  special  affection, 
if  not  of  taste,  in  either  case  conveys  an  interest 
which  no  serried  row  of  jostling  uncongenial  books 
upon  a  shelf  can  ever  have. 

In  Provence,  land  of  idyllic  sunny  skies  and 
languorous  romance,  "land  of  the  nightingale  and 
rose;"  in  Provence,  where  in  the  centuries  agone 
troubadours  sang  their  lays  and  jongleurs  recited  their 
verse;  there  first  grew  into  fullness  the  curious  forms 
of  versification  whose  modern  equivalents  are  known 
as  ballades,  triolets,  virelais  and  villanelles.  For  nine 
centuries,  the  wandering  minstrels  of  the  days  of  chiv- 
alry have  been  dust;  their  epitaphs  are  brief  references 
to  be  found  in  histories  of  European  literature. 

A  quarter-century  ago  Algernon  Swinburne's 
studies  in  old  French  literature  prompted  him  to 
essay  in  English  garb  what  had  been  done  so  felici- 
tously in  that  Romance  dialect  peculiar  to  Southern 
France.     The  facile  pen  of  Andrew  Lang  soon  made 

20 


these  verse-forms  popular.  Austin  Dobson,  Edmund 
Gosse,  Richard  Le  GalHenne,  W.  E.  Henley  and 
others  of  the  modern  school  of  English  poets  caught 
their  enthusiasm.  On  this  continent  they  were 
joined  by  Frank  Dempster  Sherman,  Clinton  Scol- 
lard,  Brander  Matthews  and  H.  C.  Bunner.  Their 
contributions  in  these  archaic  measures  and  the 
interest  inspired  by  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  and 
John  Payne  in  the  careers  of  Master  Frangois  Villon 
and  his  kindred  Gallic  spirits  have  again  made  cur- 
rent coin  the  medium  used  by  these  swaggering 
vagabonds  of  literature  who  were  the  legatees  of 
the  old  troubadours. 

Certainly,  there  is  something  fascinating  in  these 
dainty  bits  of  fragile  rhyme,  apparently  so  carelessly 
free,  and  yet  when  analyzed,  so  rigorously  fettered 
by  rules  that  may  not  be  ignored.  They  lend  them- 
selves in  a  remarkable  degree  to  that  harmonious 
combination  that  blends  sound  and  meaning  in 
such  manner  that  to  separate  is  to  destroy  both. 
These  measures  are  essentially  the  language  of 
poets,  and  they  have  inspired  many  morceaux 
descriptive  of  their  own  quaint  structure.  One  of 
the  best  examples  of  this  character  is  Algernon 
Charles  Swinburne's 

THE    ROUNDEL 

A  Roundel  is  wrought  as  a  ring  or  a  starbright  sphere, 
With  craft  of  delight  and  with  cunning  of  sound  unsought, 
That  the  heart  of  the  hearer  may  smile  if  to  pleasure 
his  ear 

A  roundel  is  wrought: 
21 


Its  jewel  of  music  is  carven  of  all  or  of  aught — 

Love,  laughter,   or  mourning — remembrance  of  rapture 

or  fear — 
That  fancy  may  fashion  to  hang  in  the  ear  of  thought. 

As  a  bird's  quick  song  runs  round,  and  the  hearts  in  us 

hear — 
Pause  answers  to  pause,  and  again  the  same  strain  caught, 
So  moves  the  device  whence,  round  as  a  pearl  or  tear, 
A  roundel  is  wrought. 

Mr.  Clinton  Scollard  prefers  the  ballade,  with  its 
inevitable  envoy  addressed  to  Prince,  or  other 
dignitary  to  whom  custom  has  made  it  necessary 
to  dedicate  the  verses: 

FOR  ME  THE  BLITHE  BALLADE 

Of  all  the  songs  that  dwell 

Where  softest  speech  doth  flow. 

Some  love  the  sweet  roundel, 
And  some  the  bright  rondeau. 
With  rhymes  that  tripping  go 

In  mirthful  measures  clad; 

But  would  I  choose  them? — no, 

For  me  the  blithe  ballade! 

O'er  some  the  villanelle, 

That  sets  the  heart  aglow. 
Doth  its  enchanting  spell 

With  lines  recurring  throw; 

Some  weighted  with  wasting  woe. 
Gay  triolets  make  them  glad; 

But  would  I  choose  them? — no. 
For  me  the  blithe  ballade ! 

On  chant  of  stately  swell 

With  measured  feet  and  slow. 


As  grave  as  minster  bell 

At  vesper  tolling  low, 

Do  some  their  praise  bestow; 
Some  on  sestinas  sad; 

But  would  I  choose  them? — no. 
For  me  the  blithe  ballade! 

Envoy 

Prince,  to  these  songs  a-row 
The  Muse  might  endless  add; 

But  would  I  choose  them? — no, 
For  me  the  blithe  ballade! 

Less  ready  in  conforming  to  the  technique  of 
ballade-writing,  Mr.  Gleeson  White  finds  the  per- 
spiration running  down  his  face  as  he  describes 
his  experience; 

BALLADE  OF  A  BALLADE  MONGER 

You  start  ahead  in  splendid  style. 

No  stint  of  rhymes  appear  in  view, 
With  many  a  happy  thought  the  while — 

You  dash  away  as  though  you  knew 

Enough  to  fill  the  thirty-two, 
Those  lines,  that  need  such  careful  filling, 

Yet  you  are  lucky  if  you  do — 
For  ballade-mongering  is  killing. 

Now  on  your  face  may  dawn  a  smile. 

To  think  that  rhj^mes  both  neat  and  new, 
To  end  your  stanzas  will  beguile 

Your  pen — till  "envoy"  you  must  brew; 

But  half  the  poem  yet  is  due. 
And  though  she  ready  be  and  willing. 

To  your  shy  muse  you  yet  must  sue — 
For  ballade-mongering  is  killing. 
23 


Here's  stanza  three,  and  now  they  rile, 

Those  end  words  that  of  every  hue 
And  form,  all  seem  so  poor  and  vile, 

You,  weary  of  the  hackneyed  crew, 

This  one  suggests  the  other's  cue. 
As  fresh  as — twelve  pence  for  a  shilling. 

No,  never  change  can  you  renew, 
For  ballade-mongering  is  killing. 

ENVOY 

Rhymesters !    The  Envoy  you  will  rue. 
Since  it  should  be  supreme  and  thrilling! 

It's  ended,  tamely  it  is  true. 

For  ballade-mongering  is  killing. 

Naturally,  Mr.  W.  E.  Henley  prefers  the  villanelle, 
for  he  pioneered  the  way  for  it  in  England,  though 
he  was  not  the  first  to  attempt  that  form  of  versifica- 
tion: 

VILLANELLE 

A  dainty  thing's  the  Villanelle, 

Sly,  musical,  a  jewel  in  rhyme, 
It  serves  its  purpose  passing  well. 

A  double-clappered  silver-bell, 

That  must  be  made  to  clink  in  chime, 
A  dainty  thing's  the  Villanelle; 

And  if  you  wish  to  flute  a  spell. 

Or  ask  a  meeting,  neath  the  lime, 
It  serves  its  purpose  passing  well. 

You  must  not  ask  of  it  the  swell 

Of  organs  grandiose  and  sublime — 
A  dainty  thing's  the  Villanelle; 

24 


And,  filled  with  sweetness,  as  a  shell 

Is  filled  with  sound,  and  launched  in  time. 
It  serves  its  purpose  passing  well. 

Still  fair  to  see  and  good  to  smell 

As  in  the  quaintness  of  its  prime, 
A  dainty  thing's  the  Villanelle, 
It  serves  its  purpose  passing  well. 

As  a  burlesque,  Mr.  Walter  W.  Skeat's  recipe  for 
the  villanelle  may  properly  find  a  place  in  juxta- 
position to  Mr.  Henley's: 

VILLANELLE 

How  to  compose  a  Villanelle,  which  is  said  to  require 
an  elaborate  amount  of  care  in  production,  which  those 
who  read  only  would  hardly  suspect  existed. 

It's  all  a  trick,  quite  easy  when  you  know  it. 

As  easy  as  reciting  ABC, 
You  need  not  be  an  atom  of  a  poet. 

If  you've  a  grain  of  wit  and  want  to  show  it, 
Writing  a  Villanelle — take  this  from  me — 
It's  all  a  trick  quite  easy  when  you  know  it. 

You  start  a  pair  of  "rimes"  and  then  you  "go  it" 

With  rapid  running  pen  and  fancy  free. 
You  need  not  be  an  atom  of  a  poet. 

Take  any  thought,  write  round  it  and  below  it. 

Above  or  near  it,  as  it  Kketh  thee; 
Its'  all  a  trick,  quite  easy  when  you  know  it. 

Pursue  your  task,  till,  like  a  shrub,  you  grow  it, 

Up  to  the  standard  size  it  ought  to  be; 
You  need  not  be  an  atom  of  a  poet. 
25 


Clear  it  of  weeds,  and  water  it,  and  hoe  it, 

Then  watch  it  blossom  with  triumphant  glee; 
It's  all  a  trick  quite  easy  when  you  know  it. 
You  need  not  be  an  atom  of  a  poet. 

Fond  as  he  is  of  the  villanelle,  Mr.  Henley  suggests 
that  easy  is  the  triolet,  if  you  really  learn  to  make  it ! 
It  is  of  the  triolet  that  one  poet  has  said:  *'It  is 
charming — nothing  can  be  more  ingeniously  mis- 
chievous, more  playfully  sly,  than  this  tiny  trill  of 
epigrammatic  melody  turning  so  simply  upon  its 
own  innocent  axis." 

TRIOLET 

Easy  is  the  Triolet, 

If  you  really  learn  to  make  it ! 
Once  a  neat  refrain  you  get, 
Easy  is  the  Triolet, 
As  you  see ! — I  pay  my  debt 

With  another  rhyme.     Deuce  take  it. 
Easy  is  the  Triolet, 

If  you  really  learn  to  make  it. 

The  rondeau  appeals  to  Mr.  Austin  Dobson, 
though  he  admits  that  he  must  await  the  mood  to 
properly  construct  one: 

IN   VAIN    TO-DAY 

In  vain  to-day  I  scrape  and  blot; 

The  nimble  words,  the  phrases  neat, 

Decline  to  mingle  and  to  meet; 
My  skill  is  all  foregone,  forgot. 

He  will  not  canter,  walk,  or  trot, 
My  Pegasus;  I  spur,  I  beat 
In  vain  to-day. 
26 


And  yet  *t  were  sure  the  saddest  lot 
That  I  should  fail  to  leave  complete 

One  poor   .    .    .   the  rhyme  suggests ''conceit!** 
Alas!  'tis  all  too  clear  I'm  not 
In  vein  to-day. 

These  verses  have  not  been  cited  as  particularly 
excellent  examples  of  their  kind,  for  that  they  are 
not.  But  they  are  felicitously  descriptive  of  them- 
selves. With  the  exception  of  Mr.  Swinburne's 
roundel,  they  serve  to  emphasize  the  facility  with 
which  they  can  be  burlesqued,  though  there  is  more 
of  playful  phrasing  than  broad  burlesque  even  here. 
More  descriptive  than  the  words  are  the  structural 
combinations.  It  all  seems  so  easy,  till  one  attempts 
it !    For  these  metrical  forms  are  subject  to  rigid  laws. 

In  the  Royal  French  library  are  stored  old  manu- 
scripts that  include  many  thousands  of  ballades  and 
rondeaus  and  virelais.  The  authorship  of  some  of 
them  is  known,  while  many  are  by  unknown  writers. 
Prof.  Saintsbury,  in  his  excellent  work  on  French 
literature,  says  that  one  troubadour  has  bequeathed 
to  posterity  one  thousand,  one  hundred  and  seventy- 
five  ballades,  not  to  mention  a  great  mass  of  rondeaus 
and  virelais.  "Charles  d'Orleans  (1391-1466)  is 
especially  honored  as  the  master  of  the  roundel, 
while  Francois  Villon  (1431-1485)  stands  out  as  the 
prince  of  all  ballade-makers.  The  first  triolet  in 
modern  English  is  ascribed  to  Robert  Bridges. 
Austin  Dobson  is  credited  with  the  first  ballade, 
Edmund  Gosse  with  the  first  villanelle  and  chant 
royal,  while  W.  E.  Henley  first  essayed  the  double 

27 


ballade  and  a  few  other  variations.  Robert  Louis 
Stevenson,  it  is  said,  essayed  a  few  of  the  Pro- 
vencal forms  of  verse,  but  his  published  works  do 
not  include  his  attempts,  if  such  there  were. 


It  is  interesting  to  note  the  tremendous  output  of 
books  that  relate  to  Omar  Khayyam.  FitzGerald's 
thin  pamphlets  in  brown  paper  wrappers  found  a 
neglected  grave  in  Quaritch's  penny  box  in  1859. 
More  than  thirty  years  elapsed  before  the  Omar 
cult  began.  Indeed,  the  paraphrases  of  the  Persian 
tentmaker's  quatrains,  rendered  into  English  by  the 
recluse  of  Woodbridge,  have  had  their  tremendous 
vogue — especially  in  America — less  than  two  dec- 
ades. In  this  brief  period  there  have  appeared  in 
America  alone  more  than  two  hundred  editions  con- 
taining FitzGerald's  versions,  and  probably  as  many 
more  giving  the  text  of  other  translators.  Magazine 
articles,  pamphlets,  booklets  and  books  dealing  with 
Omarian  philosophy  and  verse  that  have  come  from 
the  press  during  the  same  period  are  numbered  by 
the  thousands.  A  book  of  fairly  formidable  pro- 
portions comprises  a  compilation  of  verse  addressed 
to  the  poet  of  Naishapur,  and  it  contains  a  mere 
selection  of  such  verse.  Thus  a  few  years  have 
sufficed  for  a  single  poem  to  create  a  literature 
almost  equal  in  volume  to  the  entire  output  that  all 
the  works  of  Shakespeare  have  called  into  being  in 
nearly  two  hundred  years — up  to  a  century  ago. 

28 


Much  of  this  literature  is  controversial.  Carlyle, 
in  one  of  his  choleric  outbursts,  called  Omar  "that 
Persian  blackguard,"  and  more  recently  Edgar 
Saltus  has  termed  the  "ruffian  heterodoxy  of  this 
Persian  bon  vivant'*  commonplace,  "since  it  merely 
decorates  the  obvious  in  wine-drenched  garlands  and 
tawdry  spangles."  More  flippantly,  but  less  ven- 
omously, Thomas  Moore  has  suggested  that 

A  Persian  Heaven  is  easily  made: — 
'Tis  but  black  eyes  and  lemonade. 

On  the  other  hand,  Mr.  John  Hay,  and  certain 
Englishmen  of  literary  tastes  belonging  to  the  Par- 
nassian school,  have  sounded  the  praises  of  Omar  with 
as  keen  a  spirit  as  his  detractors  have  disparaged  him. 

Now  whether  the  quatrains  of  the  old  Persian 
bear  a  mystical  interpretation  or  whether  his  song 
is  merely  materialistic,  something  of  its  spirit  has 
evidently  found  a  responsive  note  among  thousands 
of  readers.  It  may  be  true,  as  Richard  LeGalli- 
enne  avers,  that  Omar  sometimes  made  use  of  wine 
and  women  as  symbols  of  his  mystical  philosophy, 
and  then  after  the  Oriental  fashion  sought  the  ideal 
in  the  real.  Whatever  inspired  the  song  of  the 
Tentmaker  nine  centuries  ago,  the  modern  reader 
hearkens  to  that  note  to  which  his  own  mind  and 
heart  are  attuned.  With  unerring  instinct  popular 
estimation  has  selected,  from  the  thousand  rubaiyat 
credited  to  old  Omar,  three  or  four  as  apart  from 
the  rest  in  beauty  of  expression  and  feeling.  And 
of  these,  one  of  them  is  held  above  them  all: 

29 


Here  with  a  Loaf  of  bread  Beneath  the  Bough, 
A  Flask  of  Wine,  a  Book  of  Verse — and  Thou 

Beside  me  singing  in  the  Wilderness — 
Oh,  Wilderness  were  Paradise  enow. 

In  these  four  lines  is  concentrated  all  that  is  need- 
ful for  man's  happiness;  it  is  the  creed  of  the  democ- 
racy of  happiness.  All  else — power,  riches,  fame — 
are  as  but  "the  rumble  of  the  distant  drum." 

These  four  lines  of  FitzGerald's,  more  than  any 
other,  demonstrate  by  comparison  how  feeble  has 
been  the  effort  of  those  who  have  attempted  to  do 
what  he  did  much  better.  Franklin  once  suggested 
a  revision  on  modern  lines  of  the  Book  of  Job.  His 
specimens  have  to-day  an  interest  as  curiosities 
merely.  A  century  hence  FitzGerald's  paraphrases 
will  remain  a  classic,  and  the  books  of  the  later 
translators  will  be  known  but  to  the  literary  anti- 
quarian and  book  collector.  To  them  the  four  lines 
of  Omar  above  quoted  will  furnish  an  interesting 
source  of  comparison.  The  genesis  thereof  may  be 
found  in  the  following  literal  translation,  as  rendered 
by  Edward  Heron-Allen  from  the  original  manu- 
script : 

I  desire  a  flask  of  ruby  wine  and  a  book  of  verses  — 
Just  enough  to  keep  me  alive,  and  half  a  loaf  is  needful. 
And  then,  that  thou  and  I  should  sit  in  the  wilderness, 
Is  better  than  the  kingdom  of  a  Sultan. 

If  a  loaf  of  wheaten  bread  be  forthcoming, 

A  gourd  of  wine,  and  a  thigh-bone  of  mutton 

And  then,  if  thou  and  I  be  sitting  in  the  wilderness, — 

That  were  a  joy  not  within  the  power  of  any  Sultan. 

30 


McCarthy's  rendering  in  sober  prose  is  al)out  as 
inanimate  as  Heron-Allen's,  and  it  has  not  its  merit 
of  literal  exactitude : 

"Give  me  a  flagon  of  red  wine,  a  book  of  verses,  a 
loaf  of  bread  and  a  little  idleness.  If  with  such  store 
I  might  sit  by  thy  dear  side  in  some  lonely  place,  I 
should  deem  myself  happier  than  a  king  in  his 
kingdom." 

Such  bleaching  bones  as  these  FitzGerald  has 
clothed  with  living,  palpitating  flesh.  In  his  lines 
leaps  the  passion  of  Oriental  fervor.  Compare  with 
his  quatrain,  for  instance,  the  parallel  verse  which 
Miss  Elizabeth  Alden  Curtis  has  constructed.  The 
atmosphere  is  at  once  translated  from  Iran  to  New 
England;  the  date  palm  becomes  a  crabapple  tree, 
and  the  juice  expressed  from  grapes  tastes  suspi- 
ciously like  cider.  And  yet  Miss  Curtis  has  un- 
deniably written  some  pretty  verses.  LeGallienne's, 
too,  have  an  interest  all  their  own.  And  in  the 
German,  von  Schack  has  caught  much  of  the 
passionate  fervor  that  finds  its  true  expression  in 
the  Orient. 

If  Edward  FitzGerald  had  not  so  amply  shown 
that  "a  little  thing  may  be  perfect  and  perfection 
is  not  a  little  thing,"  perhaps  praise  would  come 
easier  for  the  many  later  interpreters  of  Omar. 
And  this  suggests  that  perhaps  the  fairest  com- 
parison is  to  be  found,  not  in  comment  that 
may  after  all  but  reflect  individual  taste,  but  in 
the  juxtaposition  of  the  various  renderings  of 
this  quatrain: 

31 


Edward  FitzGerald  (fourth  version) : 
A  Book  of  Verses  underneath  the  Bough, 
A  Jug  of  Wine,  a  Loaf  of  Bread — and  Thou 

Beside  me  singing  in  the  Wilderness — 
Oh,  wilderness  were  Paradise  enow. 

Richard  LeGallienne: 
A  Book,  a  Woman,  and  a  Flask  of  Wine, 
The  Three  make  heaven — for  me;  it  may  be  thine 

Is  some  sour  place  of  singing  cold  and  bare — 
But  then,  I  never  said  thy  heaven  was  mine. 

Elizabeth  Alden  Curtis: 
A  roll  of  verse,  a  crust  of  wheaten  bread, 
Thy  voice  for  music,  and  my  soul  is  fed; 

The  ruby  of  thy  crimson  lips  for  wine — 
Ah,  who  would  choose  a  paradise  instead.'^ 

Charles  J.  Pickering: 
In  this  world  whoso  hath  but  a  half  a  loaf  of  bread, 
And  in  his  breast  a  refuge  where  to  lay  his  head. 

Who  of  no  man  is  slave,  who  of  no  man  is  lord — 
Tell  such  to  live  in  joy;  his  world  is  sweet  indeed. 

Michael  Kerney: 
A  flask  of  red  wine,  and  a  volume  of  song,  together — 
Half  a  loaf, — just  enough  the  ravage  of  Want  to  tether; 

Such  is  my  wish — then,  thou  in  the  waste  with  me — 
Oh!   sweeter   were   this   than   a   monarch's   crown   and 
feather ! 

Edward  H.  Whinfield: 
Give  me  a  skin  of  mne,  a  crust  of  bread, 
A  pittance  bare,  a  book  of  verse  to  read; 

With  thee,  O  love,  to  share  my  lowly  roof, 
I  would  not  take  the  sultan's  realm  instead! 

32 


John  Leslie  Garner: 
A  Flask  of  Wine,  a  book,  a  Loaf  of  Bread, — 
To  every  Care  and  Worldly  Sorrow  dead, 

I  covet  not,  when  thou,  Oh  Love,  art  near. 
The  Jeweled  Crown  upon  the  Sultan's  Head. 

H.  G.  Keene: 
A  jug  of  wine,  a  book  of  poetry, 
For  stay  of  life  a  crust  of  bread  give  me, 

And  thou  beside  me,  in  the  wilderness! 
The  Sultan's  Kingdom  better  cannot  be. 

Anson: 
Thy  ruby  Ups  pour  fragrance  into  mine. 

Thine  eye's  deep  chaUce  bids  me  drink  thy  soul; 
As  yonder  crystal  goblet  brims  with  wine, 

So  in  thy  tear  the  heart's  full  tide  doth  roll. 

Louisa  Stuart  Costello: 
When  a  Houri  form  appears. 
Which  a  vase  of  ruby  bears, 
Call  me  Giaour  if  then  I  prize 
All  the  joys  of  Paradise ! 

Edward  Boyles  Cowell: 
Some  ruby  wine  and  a  divan  of  poems, 
A  crust  of  bread  to  keep  the  breath  in  one's  body, 
And  thou  and  I  alone  in  a  desert, — 
Were  a  lot  beyond  a  Sultan's  throne. 

F.  York  Powell: 
Whether  in  Heaven  or  Hell  my  lot  be  stay'd, 
A  Cup,  a  Lute,  a  fair  and  frolic  Maid, 

Within  a  place  of  roses  please  me  now; 
While  on  the  chance  of  Heaven  thy  life  is  laid. 


33 


VI 

So,  too,  the  format  and  the  page  in  its  aspect  to 
the  eye  must  bear  relation  to  the  content. 

Lo,  the  sinners  are  many,  and  the  saintly  are  but 
few! 

Who  can  read  with  pleasure  a  book  of  poems 
unless  it  be  in  dainty  form,  easy  to  hold,  slim  as 
the  waist  of  a  maiden,  and  as  a  maid,  elusive  in  the 
shifting  moods  of  its  verses.  Give  one  a  fat,  dumpy 
volume  of  poems,  and  the  romance  fades  out  of 
its  pages.  Stevenson's  Child's  Garden  of  Verses 
in  its  dainty  Mosher  form  gives  unstinted  joy;  in 
its  quarto  form,  illustrated  by  Jessie  Wilcox  Smith, 
it  becomes  a  monstrosity,  and  it  becomes  ludicrous 
in  its  less  bulky  but  no  less  inappropriate  dress  in 
the  style  of  the  Sunbonnet  Babies.  Even  the 
handsome  Thistle  edition  gives  a  sense  of  unfitness. 

So  it  must  be  with  books  in  other  classes  of  lit- 
erature— the  thought  must  be  clothed  appropriately. 
**I  cannot  read  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  but  in  folio," 
Charles  Lamb  wrote .  * '  The  octavo  editions  are  pain- 
ful to  look  at.     I  have  no  sympathy  with  them." 

"The  ideal  book,  or  book  beautiful,"  says  T.  J. 
Cobden-Sanderson,  "is  a  composite  thing  made  up 
of  many  parts  and  may  be  made  beautiful  by  the 
beauty  of  each  of  its  parts  —  its  literary  content,  its 
material  or  materials,  its  writing  or  printing,  its 
illumination  or  illustration,  its  binding  and  decora- 
tion of  each  of  its  parts  in  subordination  to  the  whole 

34 


which  collectively  they  constitute;  or  it  may  be 
made  beautiful  by  the  supreme  beauty  of  one  or 
more  of  its  parts,  all  the  other  parts  subordinating 
or  even  effacing  themselves  for  the  sake  of  this  one 
or  more,  and  each  in  turn  being  capable  of  playing 
this  supreme  part  and  each  in  its  own  peculiar  and 
characteristic  way.  On  the  other  hand  each  con- 
tributory craft  may  usurp  the  functions  of  the  rest 
and  of  the  whole  and,  growing  beautiful  beyond  all 
bounds,  ruin  for  its  own  the  common  cause. 

"Finally,  if  the  Book  Beautiful  may  be  beautiful 
by  virtue  of  its  writing  or  printing  or  illustration,  it 
may  also  be  beautiful,  be  even  more  beautiful,  by  the 
union  of  all  to  the  production  of  one  composite  whole, 
the  consummate  Book  Beautiful.  Here  the  idea  to  be 
communicated  by  the  book  comes  first,  as  the  thing  of 
supreme  importance.  Then  comes  in  attendance  up- 
on it,  striving  for  the  love  of  the  idea  to  be  itself  beau- 
tiful, the  written  or  printed  page,  the  decorated  or 
decorative  letters,  the  pictures,  set  amid  the  text, 
and  finally  the  binding,  holding  the  whole  in  its 
strong  grip  and  for  very  love  again  itself  becoming 
beautiful  because  in  company  with  the  idea." 

Of  the  purely  intellectual  love  of  books,  leading 
in  the  end  to  their  purely  selfish  exploitation,  one 
example  may  suffice.  It  is  related  of  Antoine 
Magliabecchi  that  *'from  his  earliest  years  he  dis- 
played an  inordinate  passion  for  the  acquisition  of 
book  knowledge.  Having  mastered  the  Greek, 
Latin,  and  Hebrew  languages,  he  literally  buried 
himself    among    books,    disorderly    piles    of    which 

35 


encumbered  every  portion  of  his  dwelling.  In  his 
daily  habits  he  grew  to  disregard  the  requirements 
of  social  and  sanitary  life;  and  such  was  his  avidity 
of  study  that  he  finally  denied  himself  even  the 
requisite  intervals  of  repose.  His  memory  was 
prodigious.  Regarded  as  the  literary  prodigy  of  his 
times,  he  was  appointed  court  librarian  by  the 
Grand  Duke  of  Tuscany,  and  many  tributes  of 
respect  were  tendered  him  by  royal  and  distinguished 
personages.  He  was  intolerant  of  literary  merit  in 
others,  was  involved  in  several  bitter  literary  squab- 
bles, and  died  leaving  outside  his  correspondence  no 
written  record  of  his  encyclopedic  knowledge." 

So  we  come  to  the  third  species  of  the  genus 
bookworm,  the  most  numerous  of  all,  though  at  times 
the  most  lovable,  as  fools  are  fain  to  be — the  biblio- 
maniac. Indeed,  there  are  fifty-seven  times  fifty- 
seven  varieties  of  him.  "He  was  not,"  wrote  Mr. 
Hill  Burton  of  one  of  them,  "he  was  not  a  black- 
letter  man,  or  a  tall  copyist,  or  an  uncut  man,  or  a 
rough-edge  man,  or  an  English  dramatist,  or  an 
Elzevirian,  or  a  broadsider,  or  a  pasquinader,  or  an 
old-brown  calf  man,  or  a  Grangerite,  or  a  taw^ny 
moroccoite,  or  a  gilt-topper,  or  a  marbled  insider,  or 
an  editio  princeps  man."  Mr.  Hill  Burton's  list 
of  nicknames  might  be  extended  indefinitely.  The 
bibliomaniac  is  distinguished  by  his  voracious 
bibliothecal  appetite,  which  is  never  satisfied. 
Modern  examples  will  readily  occur  to  mind.  The 
most  conspicuous  member  of  this  banderlog  tribe 
was    Bishop    Heber,    a    wealthy    Englishman    who 

S6 


bought  books  by  tens  of  thousands.  It  is  related  of 
him  that  he  had  a  library  in  his  house  at  Hodnet. 
His  residence  in  Pimlico,  where  he  died,  was  filled 
like  Magliabecchi's  at  Florence,  with  books  from 
top  to  bottom;  every  chair,  every  passage  contained 
piles  of  erudition.  He  had  a  house  in  York  street, 
London,  filled  with  books.  He  had  a  library  at 
Oxford,  one  at  Antwerp,  one  at  Brussels,  one  at 
Ghent.  The  estimate  of  his  collections  places  the 
total  at  146,827  volumes,  which  cost  him  half  a 
million  dollars.  After  his  death  the  catalogue  of  his 
accumulations  was  published  in  a  series  of  volumes, 
and  the  sales  lasted  over  three  years. 

In  the  historic  Saints'  and  Sinners'  Corner  of  a 
Chicago  book  store  Eugene  Field  set  a  scene  one 
Sylvester  eve  satirizing  his  bibliomaniac  friends. 
They  had  gathered  to  see  the  old  year  out.  As 
the  hour  and  minute  hands  were  as  one  over  the 
XII,  the  lights  were  turned  out,  leaving  everyone 
to  witness  the  succession  of  years  in  darkness. 
There  came  from  the  distant  gloom,  in  sepulchral 
tones,  the  spoken  lines,  heard  then  for  the  first  time, 
of  Field's  inimitable  poem,  "Dibdin's  Ghost;" 

Dear  wife,  last  midnight  while  I  read 

The  tomes  you  so  despise, 
A  spectre  rose  beside  my  bed 

And  spoke  in  this  true  wise: 
"From  Canaan's  beatific  coast 

IVe  come  to  visit  thee — 
For  I  am  Frognall  Dibdin's  ghost ! " 

Says  Dibdin's  ghost  to  me. 
37 


I  bade  him  welcome,  and  we  twain 

Discussed  with  buoyant  hearts 
The  various  things  that  appertain 

To  bibliomaniac  arts. 
"Since  you  are  fresh  from  t'other  side, 

Pray  tell  me  of  that  host 
That  treasured  books  before  they  died," 

Says  I  to  Dibdin's  ghost. 

"They've  entered  into  perfect  rest, 

For  in  the  life  they've  won 
There  are  no  auctions  to  molest — 

Nor  creditors  to  dun. 
Their  heavenly  rapture  has  no  bounds 

Beside  that  jasper  sea, 
It  is  a  joy  unknown  to  Lowndes," 

Says  Dibdin's  ghost  to  me. 

Much  I  rejoiced  to  hear  him  speak 

Of  biblio  bliss  above, 
For  I  am  one  of  those  who  seek 

What  bibliomaniacs  love. 
"But  tell  me — for  I  long  to  hear 

What  interests  me  most, 
Are  wives  admitted  to  that  sphere.'^" 

Says  I  to  Dibdin's  ghost. 

"The  womenfolks  are  few  up  there. 

For  'twere  not  fair,  you  know, 
That  they  our  heavenly  joy  should  share 

Who  vex  us  here  below! 
The  few  are  those  who  have  been  kind 

To  husbands  such  as  we — 
They  knew  our  fads  and  didn't  mind," 

Says  Dibdin's  ghost  to  me. 


"But  what  of  those  who  scolded  us 

When  we  would  read  in  bed — 
Or,  wanting  victuals,  made  a  fuss 

When  we  bought  books  instead? 
And  what  of  those  who  dusted  not 

Our  treasured  pride  and  boast — 
Shall  they  profane  that  sacred  spot?" 

Says  I  to  Dibdin's  ghost. 

"O,  no!    They  tread  that  other  path 

Which  leads  where  torments  roll, 
And  worms — yea,  bookworms,  vent  their  wrath 

Upon  the  guilty  soul! 
Untouched  by  bibliomaniacs'  grace, 

That  saveth  such  as  we, 
They  wallow  in  that  dreadful  place!" 

Says  Dibdin's  ghost  to  me. 

*'To  my  dear  wife  will  I  recite 

What  things  I've  heard  you  say; 
She'll  let  me  read  the  books  by  night, 

She'll  let  me  buy  by  day; 
For  we  together,  by  and  by, 

Would  join  that  heavenly  host — 
She's  earned  a  rest  as  well  as  I," 

Says  I  to  Dibdin's  ghost. 

More  clever,  if  possible,  is  his  prose  satire  in  archaic 
form,  which  he  called  "The  Story  of  Two  Friars." 

Eugene  Field  has  written  most  delightfully  of 
himself  as  an  unregenerate  bibliomaniac  in  his 
"Love  Affairs  of  a  Bibliomaniac."  His  brother, 
Roswell  Field,  also  pictured  him,  with  loving  touches, 
as  a  bibliomaniac  in  the  readable  romance  which  he 
called  "The  Bondage  of  Ballinger." 

39 


In  truth,  one  smiles  at  the  vagaries  of  the  biblio- 
maniac but  cannot  avoid  the  spell  of  his  likeable- 
ness.  Ian  Maclaren  has  caught  a  bit  from  life  in 
his  delineation  of  the  dominie  in  Kate  Carnegie: 

"Book-shelves  had  long  ago  failed  to  accommodate 
the  Rabbi's  treasures,  and  the  floor  had  been  bravely 
utilized.  Islands  of  books,  rugged  and  perpendic- 
ular, rose  on  every  side;  long  promontories  reached 
out  from  the  shores,  varied  by  bold  headlands;  and 
so  broken  and  varied  was  that  floor  that  the  Rabbi 
was  pleased  to  call  it  the  ^Egean  Sea,  where  he  had 
his  Lesbos  and  his  Samos.  It  is  absolutely  incred- 
ible, but  it  is  all  the  same  a  simple  fact,  that  he  knew 
every  book  and  its  location,  having  a  sense  of  the 
feel  as  well  as  the  shape  of  his  favorites.  This  was 
not  because  he  had  the  faintest  approach  to  order- 
liness— ^for  he  would  take  down  twenty  volumes  and 
never  restore  them  to  the  same  place  by  any  chance. 
It  was  a  sort  of  motherly  instinct  by  which  he 
watched  over  them  all,  even  loved  prodigals  that 
wandered  over  all  the  study  and  then  set  off  on 
adventurous  journeys  into  distant  rooms.  The 
restoration  of  an  emigrant  to  his  lawful  home  was 
celebrated  by  a  feast  in  which,  by  a  confusion  of 
circumstances,  the  book  played  the  part  of  calf, 
being  read  afresh  from  beginning  to  end." 

And  it's  a  clever  description  that  Ian  Maclaren 
introduces  as  to  the  removal  of  the  Rabbi's  house- 
hold effects: 

"  Saunderson's  reputation  for  unfathomable  learn- 
ing and  saintly  simplicity  was  built  up  out  of  many 

40 


incidents,  and  grew  with  the  lapse  of  years  to  a 
solitary  height  in  the  big  strath,  so  that  no  man 
would  have  dared  to  smile  had  the  Free  Kirk 
minister  of  Kilbogie  appeared  in  Muirtown  in  his 
shirt  sleeves,  and  Kilbogie  would  only  have  been  a 
trifle  more  conceited.  Truly  he  was  an  amazing 
man.  The  arrival  of  his  goods  was  more  than  many 
sermons  to  Kilbogie.  Mr.  Saunderson  was  at  the 
station,  having  reached  it  by  some  miracle  without 
mistake,  and  was  in  a  condition  of  abject  nervous- 
ness about  the  handling  and  conversance  of  his 
belongings.  'You  will  be  careful  —  exceeding  care- 
ful,' he  implored;  *if  one  of  the  boxes  were  allowed 
to  descend  hurriedly  to  the  ground,  the  result  to 
what  is  within  would  be  disastrous.  I  am  much 
afraid  that  the  weight  is  considerable,  but  I  am  ready 
to  assist;'  and  he  got  ready. 

"'Dod,  man,'  remarked  Mains  to  the  station- 
master,  examining  a  truck  with  eight  boxes;  *the 
manse'll  no  want  for  dishes  at  ony  rate;  but  let's 
start  on  the  furniture;  whar  hae  ye  got  the  rest  o' 
the  plenishing? 

"*Naething  mair?  havers,  man,  ye  dinna  mean 
tae  say  they  pack  beds  an'  tables  in  boxes;  a'  doot 
there's  a  truck  missin'.'  Then  Mains  went  over 
where  the  minister  was  fidgeting  beside  his  posses- 
sions. 

"*No,  no,'  said  Saunderson,  when  the  situation 
was  put  before  him,  *it's  all  here.  I  counted  the 
boxes,  and  I  packed  every  box  myself.  That  top 
one  contains  the  fathers — deal  gently  with  it;  and 

41 


the  Reformation  divines  are  just  below  it.  Books 
are  easily  injured,  and  they  feel  it.  I  do  believe 
there  is  a  certain  life  in  them,  and — and — they 
don't  like  being  ill-used,'  and  Jeremiah  looked 
wistfully  at  the  ploughmen. 

"*Div  ye  mean  tae  say,'  as  soon  as  Mains  had 
recovered,  *that  ye've  brocht  naethin'  for  the 
manse  but  bukes,  naither  bed  nor  bedding.'^  Keep's 
a','  as  the  situation  grew  upon  him,  *whar  are  ye 
tae  sleep,  and  what  are  ye  to  sit  on.^  An'  div  ye 
never  eat?  This  croons  a';'  and  Mains  gazed  at 
his  new  minister  as  one  who  supposed  that  he  had 
taken  Jeremiah's  measure  and  had  failed  utterly. 

"Mrs.  Pitillo  took  the  minister  into  her  hands, 
and  compelled  him  to  accompany  her  to  Muirtown, 
where  she  had  him  at  her  will  for  some  time,  so 
that  she  equipped  the  kitchen  (fully),  a  dining-room 
(fairly),  a  spare  bedroom  (amply),  Mr.  Saunder- 
son's  own  bedroom  (miserably),  and  secured  a  table 
and  two  chairs  for  the  study.  He  explained  to 
Mrs.  Pitillo  that  every  inch  of  space  must  be  rigidly 
kept  for  the  overflow  from  the  study,  which  he  ex- 
pected— if  he  were  spared — would  reach  the  garrets. 

**We  were  not  able  at  all  times  to  see  eye  to  eye, 
as  she  had  an  unfortunate  tendency  to  meddle  with 
my  books  and  papers,  and  to  arrange  them  after 
an  artificial  fashion.  This  she  called  tidying,  and, 
in  its  most  extreme  form,  cleaning. 

"'With  all  her  excellencies,  there  was  also  in  her 
what  I  have  noticed  in  most  women,  a  certain  flavor 
of  guile,  and  on  one  occasion,  when  I  was  making  a 

42 


brief  journey  through  Holland  and  France  in  search 
of  comely  editions  of  the  fathers,  she  had  the  books 
carried  out  to  the  garden  and  dusted.  It  was  the 
space  of  two  years  before  I  regained  mastery  of  my 
library  again,  and  unto  this  day  I  cannot  lay  my 
hands  on  the  service  book  of  King  Henry  VIII, 
which  I  had  in  the  second  edition,  to  say  nothing  of 
an  original  edition  of  Rutherford's  Lex  Rex. 

*"It  does  not  become  me,  however,  to  reflect  on 
the  efforts  of  that  worthy  matron,  for  she  was  by 
nature  a  good  woman,  and  if  anyone  could  be  saved 
by  good  works,  her  place  is  assured.  I  was  with  her 
before  she  died,  and  her  last  words  to  me  were, 
"Tell  Jean  tae  dust  yir  bukes  aince  in  the  sax  months, 
and  for  ony  sake  keep  ae  chair  for  sittin'  on."  It 
was  not  the  testimony  one  would  have  desired  in  the 
circumstances,  but  yet,  Mr.  Carmichael,  I  have 
often  thought  that  there  was  a  spirit  of  .  .  . 
unselfishness,  in  fact,  that  showed  the  working  of 
grace.' " 

For  all  time,  perhaps,  the  prototype  of  the  perfect 
bibliophile  will  be  associated  with  the  personality 
of  Charles  Lamb.  He  loved  books,  and  he  knew 
books.  He  loved  their  material  forms,  and  he  loved 
the  souls  of  them.  They  brought  to  him  such  joy 
and  solace  as  he  knew  of  life,  and  he  gave  back 
manifold  to  thousands,  in  the  books  he  wrote,  the 
joy  and  solace  that  books  had  given  him.  In  his 
whimsical  fashion  he  tells  in  the  essay  "Detached 
thoughts  on  books  and  reading:"  "I  must  confess 
that  I  dedicate  no  inconsiderable  portion  of  my  time 

43 


to  other  people's  thoughts.  I  dream  away  my  life 
in  others'  speculations.  I  love  to  lose  myself  in 
other  men's  minds.  When  I  am  not  walking,  I  am 
reading;  I  cannot  sit  and  think.  Books  think  for 
me.  I  have  no  repugnances,  Shaftesbury  is  not  too 
genteel  for  me,  nor  Jonathan  Wild  too  low.  I  can 
read  anything  which  I  call  a  book.'' 

There  are  things  in  that  shape,  he  adds,  which 
he  cannot  allow  for  such,  and  he  names  in  this 
catalogue  of  books  which  are  no  books: 
Court  Calendars,  Directories,  Pocket  Books, 
Draught  Boards,  bound  and  lettered  on  the  back. 
Scientific  Treatises,  Almanacs,  Statutes  at  Large; 
the  works  of  Hume,  Gibbon,  Robertson,  Beattie, 
and  generally,  all  those  volumes  which  no  gentle- 
man's library  should  be  without. 

"With  these  exceptions,"  he  adds,  "I  can  read 
almost  anything.  I  bless  my  stars  for  a  taste  so 
catholic,  so  unexcluding.  I  confess  that  it  moves 
my  spleen  to  see  these  things  in  books'  clothing 
perched  upon  shelves,  like  false  saints,  usurpers  of 
true  shrines,  intruders  into  the  sanctuary,  thrusting 
out  the  legitimate  occupants.  To  reach  down  a 
well-bound  semblance  of  a  volume,  and  hope  it 
some  kind-hearted  play-book,  then,  opening  what 
*  seems  its  leaves,'  to  come  bolt  upon  a  withering 
Population  Essay.  To  expect  a  Steele,  or  a  Farqu- 
har,  and  find — Adam  Smith.  To  view  a  well- 
arranged  assortment  of  blockheaded  Encyclopedias 
(Anglicans  or  Metropolitans)  set  out  in  an  array 
of  Russia,  or  morocco,  when  a  tithe  of  that  good 

44 


leather  would  comfortably  reelothe  my  shivering 
folios;  would  renovate  Paracelsus  himself,  and  enable 
old  Raymund  Lully  to  look  like  himself  again  in  the 
world.  I  never  see  these  impostors,  but  I  long  to 
strip  them,  to  warm  my  ragged  veterans  in  their 
spoils." 

And  Charles  Lamb  knew  his  books  well,  and  he 
loved  them  well.  He  had,  too,  the  courage  of  his 
convictions. 

"Shall  I  be  thought  fantastical,"  he  asks,  "if  I 
confess,  that  the  names  of  some  of  our  poets  sound 
sweeter,  and  have  a  finer  relish  to  the  ear — to  mine, 
at  least — than  that  of  Milton  or  of  Shakespeare? 
It  may  be,  that  the  latter  are  more  staled  and  rung 
upon  in  common  discourse.  The  sweetest  names, 
and  which  carry  a  perfume  in  the  mention,  are.  Kit 
Marlowe,  Drayton,  Drummond  of  Hawthornden, 
and  Cowley. 

"Much  depends  upon  when  and  where  you  read 
a  book.  In  five  or  six  impatient  minutes  before 
dinner  is  quite  ready,  who  would  think  of  taking 
up  the  Faerie  Queene  for  a  stop-gap,  or  a  volume  of 
Bishop  Andre wes'  Sermons? 

"Milton  almost  requires  a  solemn  service  of  music 
to  be  played  before  you  enter  upon  him.  But  he 
brings  his  music,  to  which,  who  listens,  had  need 
bring  docile  thoughts,  and  purged  ears.  Winter 
evenings — the  world  shut  out — with  less  of  cere- 
mony the  gentle  Shakespeare  enters.  At  such  a 
season,  the  Tempest,  or  his  own  Winter's  Tale — " 

How  well  Lamb  expressed  the  unspoken  feelings 

45 


of  many  a  bibliophile,  poor  in  purse  but  rich  in  a 
few  shelves  of  books,  when  he  wrote  in  reminiscent 
mood: 

"Do  you  remember  the  brown  suit,  which  you 
made  to  hang  upon  you  till  all  your  friends  cried 
shame  upon  you,  it  grew  so  threadbare,  and  all 
because  of  that  folio  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  which 
you  dragged  home  late  at  night,  from  Barker's  in 
Covent  Garden?  Do  you  remember  how  you  eyed 
it  for  weeks  before  we  could  make  up  our  minds  to 
the  purchase,  and  had  not  come  to  a  determination 
till  it  was  near  ten  o'clock  of  the  Saturday  night, 
when  you  set  off  from  Islington,  fearing  you  should 
be  late — and  when  the  old  bookseller,  with  some 
grumbling,  opened  his  shop,  and  by  the  twinkling 
taper  (for  he  was  setting  bedwards)  lighted  out  the 
relic  from  his  dusty  treasures — and  when  you  lugged 
it  home,  wishing  it  were  twice  as  cumbersome — and 
when  you  presented  it  to  me — and  when  we  were 
exploring  the  perfectness  of  it  (collating,  you  called 
it),  and  while  I  was  repairing  some  of  the  loose 
leaves  with  paste,  which  your  impatience  would  not 
suffer  to  be  left  till  day-break,  was  there  no  pleasure 
in  being  a  poor  man?" 

It  is  well  to  know  many  books  even  though 
slightly,  but  it  is  better  to  know  a  few  intimately 
well.  There  was  Tam  Fleck  at  Peebles  in  Scotland 
of  whom  William  Chambers  tells  in  his  fascinating 
autobiography.  He  went  about  from  house  to 
house  with  a  translation  of  Josephus. 

"Weel,  Tam,  what's  the  news  the  nicht?"  one 

46 


of  the  neighbors  would  say  as  Tarn  entered  with  the 
ponderous  volume  under  his  arm. 

"Bad  news,  bad  news,"  replied  Tam.  "Titus 
has  begun  to  besiege  Jerusalem  —  its  gaun  to  be 
a  terrible  business." 

At  any  rate  Tam  knew  one  book  well,  which  is 
more  than  can  be  said  of  many  a  bookseller,  and 
perhaps  of  some  librarians,  too. 

The  intimate  knowledge  of  books  may  embrace 
but  a  limited  shelf-full;  the  love  of  books  must  be 
universal.  He  who  would  pass  on  the  torch  must 
keep  the  flame  aglow.  Only  when  one  has  fervor  and 
passion  for  what  is  finest  and  best  in  the  literature 
of  all  time  can  there  be  implanted  in  others  the  love 
of  books  which  leads  to  the  knowledge  of  books. 

Not  what  we  give,  but  what  we  share, 
For  the  gift  without  the  giver  is  bare. 

The  Thought  Beautiful  in  the  Book  Beautiful  is 
but  the  symbol  of  the  Life  Beautiful  in  the  World 
Beautiful. 


47 


PRINTED  FOR  THE  CAXTON  CLUB 
IN  THE  MONTH  OF  DECEMBER,  lgi2 
BY  R.  R.  DONNELLEY  &  SONS  COMPANY 
AT  THE  LAKESIDE  PRESS,  CHICAGO 


RETURN     LIBRARY  SCHOOL  LIBR 

TO^          Room  133  -  Main  Library 

ARY 

642-2253 

LOAN  PERIOD  1    : 

2                               ^ 

4 

5                               6 

ALL  BOOKS  AAAY  BE  RECALLED  AFTER  7  DAYS 

:       P^A^  <;tampED  BELOW        

■  m\  2  ■  '^ 

^ 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CA 
FORM  NO  DD  18,  45m  676                    BERKELE 

LIFORNIA,  BERKELEY 
EY,  CA  94720 

'-'•■« 


UC  BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 

CDE7M2bT37 


90627? 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


n 


